Actually, I -
by phinflynn
Summary: Ferb contemplates the ever popular question of why he never speaks. Lots of implied Phinerb. If you don't like the pairing, seriously, go away. You won't like this fic.


**I don't remember what prompted this one, but I like how it came out. Phineas being obsessed with Ferb is a fun topic, but Ferb being obsessed with Phineas is just delightful to write.**

**One of these days I'll have to write something that's over than a thousand words, sheesh.**

* * *

People always ask why I don't speak.

Am I mute? Am I mentally impaired? Am I sick? They go on with their questions, their theories and elaborate explanations; yet before I ever get the chance to answer, they've moved on. It's never been too much of a bother… I don't know if I could put it into words anyway. I've been told that when I _do_speak, I'm very eloquent, and yet… how do you describe the very essence of your being? How do you summarize seventeen years of growth and change?

Perhaps it began with my biological mother, a strict woman who believed that children were to be seen and not heard. I'm not sure if that's it though. Yes, she trained me from an early age that silence was golden, but Father disputed this and moved me to a country full of loud people, and married us into a family full of things to say. Perhaps I'm just introverted – in fact, I'm almost positive I am. But were I allowed to finish my sentence and explain why I don't speak, that probably wouldn't be the answer either.

No… I believe the answer would simply be Phineas.

"Simple" doesn't quite apply though. Phineas is anything _but _simple. He is an almost god-like being, a wonderful mix of love and intelligence and the sort of innocence one does not often find in boys our age. He is an amazing friend, the perfect brother… and he is my voice.

Why speak when he does it for me? What is the use of a British accent when everything is exotic in his voice? I am his hands, always building for a blueprint he's yet to finish, playing the chords for a song he's only just begun to sing. That is my duty in his world, in this backyard, under that old oak tree. The "man of action," as he says. I create; he thinks, and he speaks.

Yet even when I have something to say, there are days when I find myself unable to articulate them. He steals my breath away, the Ursula to my Ariel. Why distract him with my words when I can watch and observe? Phineas is a beautiful force of nature, a creature I am lucky to be so close to. He's too modest for his own good… always going on about how I'm the better one between the two of us. I am nothing next to him, and yet in his eyes I am the entire world, perhaps the entire galaxy and beyond. I know this not only because he's said it, but because I see it when we're together, when he takes my hands and leads me to the shade of the tree, telling me his new plans before he backs up against the bark and slides down to the grass. There is worship in his eyes. Or maybe I am merely seeing a reflection of my own admiration for him.

I speak so rarely that all eyes are on me when I do. So why do it at all? Why distract the world from Phineas Flynn? I am content in his shadow when it allows the others to bask in his glory. He hates to find me there, though; he will forcefully drag me to his side, or even in front of him, so that the world may gaze upon the dead silence of Ferb Fletcher. Marvelous.

In his innocence, he is blind to the truth, to his own holiness. The light that surrounds him illuminates me at his side, and he believes that it is my aura which shines so brightly.

In a proper relationship, it is said you must be equals. I suppose in some sense we are. Whereas I am nothing, and see him as everything, he believes himself to be nothing and that I am everything. It is never verbalized… how could it be, when he is the only one who speaks? True, in his presence alone I am more likely to voice my own thoughts, but never the ones which are so obvious to me. He would be furious to know I see myself so low next to him.

He is the force which drives us, and the forceful one between us; I am passive, merely a dutiful follower. It was Phineas who kissed me first, Phineas who took my face in his hands and invaded my mouth with his tongue. I merely melted into him and went with what he wanted. And, well… I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it too.

With each kiss he steals more of my words for his own use. Perhaps I _will _be rendered mute. Does it truly matter? No; my voice is only good for telling him I love him. And I think he knows that well enough by now.

Phineas would mourn such a loss, though. I don't believe he'd ever let it be so. Maybe that's why I still muster up the breath to speak even when he's stunned me into silence with his beauty. His smile is my goal, his happiness and love. If I must speak to maintain this then so be it.

But that is between us. In the backyard, standing next to (and towering above) Phineas, usually in the shadow of some great technological marvel, I am quiet. My voice is a mystery to most outside of our small circle of friends and family. I am the tall enigma that never leaves Phineas's side. And so, in the wake of our demonstration there will always be one who comes forth to ask why I don't speak. Perhaps they will offer up valid reasons and theories while I stare and wait for the conclusion. Then they will become distracted, and I will be left with my mouth agape, in the middle of an answer I've never even gotten all the way through.

_Actually, I –_

I what?

Phineas is the thinker, the speaker. I am merely the doer. He is the voice, and I am the hands.

In the night, in my bed, he whispers assurances and compliments into my ear while I slip my fingers under his night shirt and explore his sinfully perfect body.

In the day, he sweeps his arms out in wide gestures and explains amazing machines while I gather the tools and order the materials.

Throughout my entire life, I have only cut in with trivial comments or observations, or perhaps a speech or two when such a thing was necessary.

_Actually, I…_

…Simply prefer to leave the speaking to the boy who says it best.

Perhaps in a world where people so often don't hear me through anyway, that is all I could say. And if I never get to finish my answer, so be it. In the end it is not the opinions of these people that I desire or even really care for. They can go on thinking I'm stupid or mute or whatever their idea is. I don't need them – in fact, I hardly need anyone at all.

As long as I have Phineas, what does any of it matter?


End file.
